


Pictures of You

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, M/M, Or as domestic and fluffy as these two can be, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Twenty-three snapshots into the often turbulent lives of one Doctor Hannibal Lecter and one Special Investigator Will Graham.





	Pictures of You

**1) apricity**

It snows heavy in Vienna this year, heavier outside it. Austria is strange, foreign to both of them. And they are foreign to it, the doctor and his often-silent, brooding husband.

They're settled out front this morning, cups of coffee held in their hands, steam curling off it. They take their coffee the same. Hannibal’s not sure when that happened. Will closes his eyes, breathes deep the winter. Hannibal simply watches.

The sun washes over them. It's warm this morning, even this early. It soothes away the aches of the cold, the ice growing in their chests. 

"Good morning, Will."

* * *

**2) aspectabund**

In the kitchen, everything falls. Their veneer, their life. It's all over the moment Will sees Hannibal.

And then he looks him in the eye.

In that moment, Will falls down, deep into darkness. He's vaguely aware he's lowered his gun. Hannibal is unrestrained, untamed, eyes dark with pain.

It worries Will more than the blood.

Hannibal's hand shakes as he cups Will's face. That hurt softens, letting Will into the rawness, the maelstrom of emotions lurking under that shredded person-suit.

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

The knife slips into Will's belly. The pain is clear. They're the same now. 

Wound for wound.

* * *

**3) aurora**

They're out late. Florence is an all-night city. But they're not out because of a fashion show or art exhibit. No. Tonight, they're up so late from the hunt.

It's darkest now, while they work together to wrap the meat.

The first fingers of dawn cup Will's face, highlighting his cheekbones, playing through his dark curls. He looks amazing in black leather, Hannibal muses.

"You're slacking," Will raises a brow.

"It's daylight.”

"We're not vampires. We're not going to turn to ash."

The sky turns rose gold. Will throws the meat in, wipes his blood-stained face. Dawn makes Will handsome.

* * *

**4) basorexia**

Will Graham’s mouth was wicked. Hannibal felt overcome with the compulsion to capture his mouth, taste Will’s morning coffee and savour it. His lips, brightly pink, stood out like carnations among brambles, and Hannibal wondered if they might be as soft.

Seeing Will avoid eye contact, Hannibal kept his stare fixed on Will’s mouth: the shape, the colour. It was shameless and perfectly acceptable all at once. Hannibal couldn’t have been more thankful for the excuse eye contact gave him to fantasize about Will’s lips.

Fantasize and marvel at how sweet that kiss would be when he could claim it.

* * *

**5) balter**

Will hasn't the first clue about ballroom dancing. Hannibal is insistent, taking Will and guiding him through the steps. They only work together, clumsily, through the basics.

Moving to pull away, Will finds himself guided closer, held fast in Hannibal's arms. One of Hannibal's hands rests on the small of Will's back, the other holds Will's head.

They're still swaying, lazily, like cats battering half-dead mice for fun.

Will buries his face in Hannibal's neck, inhaling the scent of cologne and blood under it.

There's no grace left in it, none of the gloss of the ballroom. It's them, swaying.

* * *

**6) cafune**

It was not often Will got physically close enough to ruin Hannibal’s veneer of personhood, the carefully constructed polite-society lie. But when he does, usually right before bed when they’re both exhausted he takes great joy in carding his fingers through the Ripper’s hair. In such a simple, slow motion he could make Hannibal seem halfway human.

“Will?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re smiling.”

“You’re soft,” Will answers.

Hannibal blinks. Will’s fingers dig into the temples, where all the grey gathers and where the headaches seem to be the worst. Hannibal’s eyes half-close with pleasure, relief even.

“You are soft as well, Will.”

* * *

**7) catharsis**

He anticipates it every second after they wash up on the beach, stinging and raw. He expects Will to scream. He expects Will to kill and rage against everything they have left. 

But Will bides his time. In their love-nest, he gathers his rage, his passion, fear, elation.

It's not until a month after the fall. 

Will brings bundles of butcher paper in from the car, pounds and pounds. Hannibal cups his face, thumb running along Will's lower lip.

"I brought dinner."

"You did." Hannibal takes the parcel. "Was it messy?"

"Of course."

Hannibal wishes he could have seen it.

* * *

**8) ethereal**

Hannibal peels back the silver paper with care. Inside, only a tea set. He could laugh at the way the conversation's grown from seed to crop between them, the ripe fruit sitting on their dining room table.

They're a deep red, the colour of blood and apples. And around the rim of each cup is a band of gold. How apt, Hannibal thinks, that Will's wedding present to him would be a gold band. The saucers are gilded too, giving them a Gothic look, strength despite the fine china make.

"So the teacup came together?"

"They both did," Will answers.

* * *

**9) frission**

Hannibal knows that trembling that builds in Will's body by now. It's familiar, the shaking before he cums. 

And Hannibal knows the growling, rough and husky, cedar smoke and sandpaper. He knows the scent Will’s of sweat, his aftershave.

But it's the shiver that delights Hannibal the most. It always starts in Will's hands, like he's holding himself back by grabbing at Hannibal, at the sheets, at the headboard, at anything. It snakes up Will's spine, spreads like ivy vines, spreads through all of him until he can barely keep fucking.

It's such a wonderful buffet to fuck Will Graham.

* * *

**10) fernweh**

Once he'd given Will a taste of Italy after the fall, the man was insatiable. He wanted to see everything, be everywhere at least once. Hannibal could never deny Will anything, not really.

They mingled in art galleries, Hannibal whispering about it to Will. They hunted on shadowy rural roads. They moved so often, took time getting to know the world.

They always return to the Lecter home to rest, plan another trip. When they linger too long, Will gets like a caged tiger, wanting to sink his claws into everything.

So they travel.

And Will seems grateful for it.

* * *

**11) halcyon**

Seated in front of the painting, Hannibal warm next to him, Will realizes he's never wanted any of this. He wants Abigail, his pack, Hannibal even. He wants the semblance of normalcy, the days filled with hope.

Hell, he'd go through all the drugs to treat encephalitis if it meant Abigail lived.

Hannibal says nothing, even as Will looks down, swallowing his sorrow. His sniffling echoes on the marble walls.

Hannibal licks his lips, then, "We could be free."

"I want to go back to what we were."

"Oh Will." Hannibal makes no move to comfort him. "You delightful thing."

* * *

**12) kismet**

Murasaki told him about the red thread. Hannibal wondered often as a boy where the other end was. Did it stretch all the way across the ocean? Was it just down the street? A handsome girl with status and life to bring to the Lecter home? A man, strong enough to build the family to its former glory?

As a boy, he often held his hand up, inspecting it before bed. Sometimes, he thought he could see the faintest red thread.

He continued to fantasize about a hunter. An equal. A partner in crime.

And then he met Will Graham.

* * *

**13) pyrrhic**

Randall Tier had been Hannibal's favourite. He was so bright, making his mechanical maw to eat mankind, to mangle and maim flesh. Hannibal did weep for him, even if no one saw it.

Still, Randall had been a necessary sacrifice. The first hunt of a young lion. The first clumsy strokes of a new painter.

To see Will standing so proudly over his kill set Hannibal aflame. Desire, pride, love, fear.

They'd have to cover it up. They still might be able to find Will in the details of Randall's body.

But it was terribly beautiful and worth the cost.

* * *

**14) marcid**

Will returns home on his infrequent solo hunts just before dawn. He always strips out of his coat, leaves his boots by the door. Some nights, he's like a vampire, collapsing when the first rays of sun invade their bedroom. Others, he'll grab a cup of coffee, read the paper, peck Hannibal on the cheek, and then sleep.

Still, Hannibal's come to enjoy Will's nocturnal existence. He even enjoys the fatigue.

When Will sleeps, he looks peaceful. Like a painting with the way the sun plays through his dark curls, eyes closed to the world, stress gone from his face.

* * *

**15) noceur**

It's not that Hannibal doesn't trust Will to come home. It's just worry. Concern. He keeps a kit hidden in the living room, should the worst happen to Hannibal's beloved.

He fears having to pull bullets from Will. But he's more terrified at the prospect of identifying a body.

Will's car pulls into the driveway, same quiet purring as ever. The headlights flood the living room.

Knowing he's safe and home, Hannibal lays on the couch, allowing himself to doze. Will always ushers him to bed, when he’s ready.

The front door opens as the waters of sleep take Hannibal.

* * *

**16) pulchritudinous**

"It's beautiful," Will sobs.

It is, Hannibal thinks, though he says nothing. They both reek of blood, of death. And the frigid, brine-laden air rushing past them. It wakes them both. It makes them aware of each other. Aware of their plummet.

Hannibal considers the moon, how impassive and icy she hangs in the night sky. She's full tonight, an eye silently staring. And she grows farther with every fraction of a second.

Will looks down at the dark waves, silver foam glistening on the rocks. Death seems too cold. He buries his face in the crook of Hannibal's neck.

* * *

**17) scintilla**

There’s never a trace of doubt in Will’s mind that Hannibal would do anything to possess him. Even behind glass at the BSHCI, he knows this is all strings being pulled. It’s obsession, the way a boyfriend goes through his girlfriend’s phone or watches her go home from work. It’s late night heavy-breathing from a payphone outside the apartment.

It’s control.

He still pushes the idea that Hannibal loves him away, seals in the back of his mind, chains it down and walls it off. This isn’t love. It’s not love the way Will wants it. 

It’s not his design.

* * *

**18) sweven**

He dreams deep of The Beast, all black skin and antlers. Claws cradle Will as they sleep face to face, little pinpricks warning of danger, blood, violence, madness even. He can’t tell if The Beast’s eyes are closed or not. It doesn’t matter. He expects to be gored by The Beast’s antlers, shredded like wet paper by those razor-wire claws. Instead, The Beast buries His face in Will’s throat, breath cold and clammy over his skin.

And The Beast inhales his scent, long and deep.

Will wakes, sweating, searching for the monster sharing his bed.

There’s just Hannibal, soundly asleep.

* * *

**19) tacenda**

They never talk children, even after ten years in Europe. It's still raw, though festering now.

But they never bring it up.

They're older, wiser, and they both know a child would complicate things too much. So they never say it, never make any plans. They hunt. They fuck. They live.

The infant in the back-seat of their kill wails. Will looks at Hannibal. Hannibal says nothing, gathering the child and all their things.

"We can't keep her," Will says.

"I know." Hannibal smiles. “We’ll leave here somewhere safe. She’ll grow up fine, Will.”

Hesitantly, Will wipes the child’s tears.

* * *

**20) temerate**

"Hello Will."

"Doctor Lecter."

The sight of Will behind the glass cuts Hannibal to the core. But this is necessary. He'll do everything to keep Will out of prison, everything to preserve what they have.

"We are no longer on a first name basis."

Hannibal sighs. "I am sorry to hear it."

In nine words, Will has refused him. In nine words, Will has broken their bond.

Hannibal is willing to overlook this rudeness, to salvage their relationship. It'll be work, but Hannibal does not shy from calluses.

But Will turns his back on Hannibal, refusing to speak to him.

* * *

**21) toska**

"You just came here to look at me...came to get the old scent again. Why don't you just smell yourself?"

That hurts more than any of the lies. The verbal whipping has Will's rage coiling like a snake behind that disembowelment scar. The scar itself--pink and raw still--aches.

It's been aching ever since Hannibal's whispered "I gave you a child."

He did. Then he took her.

"I expected more from you, Doctor Lecter."

And now the hurt is in Hannibal's court. Will's no longer Hannibal’s favoured pet, the whipped bloodhound. He has teeth. He'll bite the hand feeding him.

* * *

**22) vividity**

Hannibal didn't expect Will Graham to be a blushing virgin. He anticipated, based on Will's body language and what he'd revealed of himself, that Will didn't have much experience with other men.

And oh how delightful it was to watch Will out of his depth, unsure, seeking Hannibal's guidance.

And lo, how wonderful it was to make love to Will Graham. The first time was gentle, dutiful guiding like a practice waltz.

And then Will, confident and beautiful Will, grasped Hannibal round the throat.

That turned the sex from simple to stellar. Hannibal let Will take the reins, within reason.

* * *

**23) whelve**

It strikes Will as funny how easily they can slip away, how they hide in plain sight. A country manor hosting a wine-tasting, a luxurious penthouse rented for the week. It’s all the same, requiring person-suits.

Hannibal, with his sleeves rolled up, continues to wash Will’s dark curls, the gentleness of fingers on his scalp bringing Will home. Hannibal’s a better tailor at these human skins they wear, but Will knows how to source the raw materials.

“You ran away from me, my love,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will sinks lower in the bath. “Only in mind.”

“In spirit?”

“Never, darling, never.”


End file.
